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THE DESIGNER LOOK

The lights turned red. Again. Every intersection on the morning's drive to work had featured the same delay, and Hutch resigned himself to being conspicuously late. No question this time of just making it under the wire. The bright morning had begun badly with the realization of last night's failure to set the alarm, followed almost at once by Starsky's call with its transparent rationalizations for not being able to pick him up...no gift for lying except when you're undercover... The failure of the alarm was pushed into second place by the failure of the blender to do more than erupt its contents over an impossibly wide area. And getting the car started had taken another twenty hot, oily minutes.

He wondered, as he waited impatiently for the green, what ingenious cover Starsky might, at this very moment, be creating for him. He wondered whether he really wanted to know. With pessimism induced by the day's bad start, he brooded over past manifestations of that lively inventiveness, recalling the speculative looks his later-than-usual arrival had attracted on some previous occasions.

Finding a parking slot took more time and he estimated that the meeting must have been running for at least fifteen minutes already. Somehow, the squadroom's inhabitants gave the strong impression of having been hard at work for a long time, and Starsky's absence from their desk confirmed his guess about the meeting arranged as a follow-up to the Gutierrez case. Scheduled as a top priority, interdepartmental discussion in depths and in detail. Decision making. Policy conference, working out new strategies. Important -- the kind of project which could count for a lot in such matters as promotion and career structure.

He knocked on the door of Dobey's office and went in without waiting for an invitation. The meeting was clearly well into its stride, with documents and maps spread out, pinboards set up, files open, papers being passed around. The atmosphere was businesslike. Formal, even. With a muttered apology, Hutch looked around for a vacant chair. The only one in evidence was small, uncomfortably molded in some unyielding plastic substance in a design which seemed to bear little relation to the human frame. Everyone waited while he collected it and carried it over from its far corner, squeezed it into an inadequate space near the door.

"Detective-Sergeant Hutchinson," Dobey announced briefly as he joined the circle.

".... Morning...better late then never," he heard himself saying. Nobody commented on the statement. Discussion was resumed, and Hutch tried to pick up its threads, to participate intelligently.

He breathed deeply in a conscious effort to collect his thoughts. His gaze traveled around the office, identifying the various officers involved in the exercise...past Ortega... past Dobey in his usual place...swung on past the desk...and he blinked in rapid double-take.

A vision of elegance was established just to Dobey's right. Disbelievingly, Hutch took in the understated perfection of the mid-grey, light-weight suit, the dazzling, whiter-than-white shirt, the precisely knotted tie of silvery raw silk. Starsky's whole attention was concentrated on the document in his hand as he made some pertinent point, commanding the respectful interest of the meeting. There was a pause while everyone except Hutch referred to the sub-section of the agenda-paper which Starsky had just indicated.

Starsky looked up to meet Hutch's incredulous stare, and nodded politely across the room. "Wanna share?" he offered, holding out his own copy of the agenda. Somehow, Hutch got to his feet and crossed over to take it. If he were to take any constructive part in the proceedings, it could be as well to know exactly what they were here to talk about. A thought supervened as he turned to retire to his corner and he leaned over the desk, craning his neck to get a glimpse of his partner's feet.

"You lost something, Hutchinson?" The somewhat impatient enquiry brought him back to the moment. Dobey seemed -- just -- to be refraining from saying, "Don't fidget!"

He dropped the agenda-paper. Starsky leaned easily down, retrieved it and put it back in his hand. "Klutz ..." he murmured reprovingly.

As he returned to his place, Hutch was aware of everyone waiting for him to be ready, for the business of the meeting to go on. He studied the typescript in his hand, seeing, somehow superimposed upon it, the mental picture of Starsky's plain and highly polished shoes.

With difficulty he dragged his mind back to the questions they were there to resolve, even offered comments which, to his vague surprise, were seriously received. He drank coffee with the others when the tray was brought in, spilling only a little on the papers he held. The last item was eventually dealt with, and Dobey was bringing the meeting to a close while the man from Immigration gathered up files.

"Hang on to that one for reference -- there's a duplicate here," he said, "may be useful if you and your -- uh -- assistant keep it temporarily."

Starsky accepted it with a courteous word of thanks, picked up his remaining papers, said a gracious and general 'Good morning' and retreated into the squadroom. After a moment, Hutch followed along, not entirely certain that he was going to be able to handle this day.

Across their desk, he studied his partner again. It was easier now to assimilate every correct and coordinated detail.

"What d'you think you're doin'?" he asked finally.

Starsky looked up enquiringly. "What...?"

"Coming to work like that. They're all lookin' at ya."

Starsky preened. "Dobey likes his men to look neat. It's my new image."

"Yeah -- well -- it's not really right for jumping off tall buildings, buddy. You thought of that? Or for mingling unobtrusively with the criminal world."

The telephone broke in and Hutch picked up the receiver, listened in growing wonder.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I'll tell him...." He looked across at his beautiful partner as he put the phone down. "There's a photographer downstairs -- got an appointment with you, he says...."

Starsky stood up and smoothed a sleeve, touched the knot of his tie. "My modeling session," he confirmed. "You comin'?"

With a curiosity he could neither deny nor suppress, Hutch tagged along as Starsky headed for the elevators. In the foyer, Laura came forward eagerly, accompanied by a sad-looking man with an elaborate camera. She greeted them warmly. "Nice of the Department to let us do this. I promised we won't take up a lot of your time." She surveyed Starsky with a detached, knowledgeable air. "Did I do all that? Yes...the gray was definitely the right choice."

"Right for what?" Hutch demanded.

She spared him a moment's brief explanation. "What the young executive is wearing." She was assessing the foyer's potential for her professional purposes. "It'll probably be featured next month. We want some typical city settings for the clothes...and David here...."

Her attention switched back to Starsky and her photographer colleague. Hutch watched, fascinated, as his partner was arranged against the background of the rather sparse potted palms, which were the Department's only properties for the occasion.

"Hey," Starsky asked suddenly, "you want Hutch in the picture, too?"

She frowned slightly. "It's not that kind of picture, David. Now...if we were doing a before and after presentation...." Her glance absorbed Hutch in swift appraisal. "Some other time maybe. No...just you for now... Keep still...okay, Howard."

Hutch looked on while Howard got to work, circling his subject, taking shots from various interesting angles. A lot of people stopped to watch. It didn't take too long before Laura was making some final notes while her companion packed up the equipment and waited for her to be ready to leave.

"That's it?" Starsky asked, apparently surprised that his moment of glory should be over so soon.

"That's it. We're through. Told you it would be comparatively painless. The clothes can be collected tomorrow, okay? We have to rush now -- schedule running late. And thanks!" She smiled affectionately. "Oh -- here --"

Starsky absently accepted the envelope she put into his hand and, somewhat despondent, watched her departure.

Hutch grinned. "You have to give all this stuff back?" he asked. "It's not yours?"

Starsky sighed and shrugged. "Was Laura's idea. She cleared it with Dobey. You heard what she said...didn't take long -- and after all the effort, too."

Once more, Hutch took in his partner's scintillating splendor. "Yeah," he said, "so how about an early lunch? You didn't ask but I didn't actually get any breakfast."

"Sure. Okay. Better dump all this anyway."

"About time. Come on, Cinderella."

Starsky stood first on one leg and then on the other to remove the polished shoes. "My feet hurt," he informed Hutch pathetically. "Wanna go home."

Back in the familiar comfort of his usual idiosyncratic style, Starsky bit into the burger which Hutch had put together while the gray suit was being packaged.

"Hey," Hutch remembered, "we might have got steaks. You get a fee for all that?"

"Money? Should I?" It was clear that Starsky had not considered this aspect of his venture into the warm and wonderful world of high fashion.

"No, guess you don't," Hutch decided. "Department's time... Just a PR stunt."

Gloomily, Starsky accepted the likelihood of the diagnosis, but then brightened as he picked up the envelope from the coffee table. Hutch came to lean over the sofa back, watching with unconcealed interest as Starsky shook out the decorative vouchers, with their logo of a well-known and expensive boutique, entitling the bearer to a selection of items of his/her choice.

"So they pay you off in clothes, Starsk," Hutch commented. "She must have seen the need."

Next day, when the shift ended, the Torino came to a halt outside the exclusive West Hollywood establishment. Hutch was driving.

"This is the place. There you go," he encouraged. 

Starsky frowned. "I'm not goin' in there."

"Don't be dumb. No need to be scared."

"Yeah? Last time I let you con me into some place, all I got was a headache that lasted hours."

Hutch began shepherding his reluctant companion towards the delicate, lavender paintwork of the entrance to 'Chez Marlene'. "They're not going to throw you out of this joint," he reassured. "Speak English, too." He opened the door and administered a decisive push to propel Starsky across the threshold. "You can't pass up something like this."

Starsky turned on him a challenging look. "It's okay," Hutch soothed. "I'm coming in with you this time -- help you choose...."

Once inside the boutique, wrapped around in its ambience of soft lights, soft music, soft carpeting, and welcomed by assiduous sales staff, Starsky's doubts began to evaporate as he entered into the spirit of the occasion, prowling along the racks and shelves, in the intoxicating belief that almost any item could be his for the asking, while Hutch embarked on some prowling on his own account. He drew Starsky away from the hooded windcheaters which seemed to be exerting strong appeal.

"Knock it off," he urged. "We don't have the time for you to try on everything in the store... Come look at these."

He led Starsky across to the opposite rails. "C'mon -- you have to choose from here. You need something like this." He sorted through hangers.

"I'll help...know your size...." he added, making selections from the dazzling display of designer clothes.

"Here --" He dropped voluminous folds over his partner's head and turned him around to confront the triple mirrors.

Starsky studied his reflected transformation, met Hutch's enthusiastic expression in the glass. "You crazy?" he asked mildly. "Why would I need a -- uh -- cloak?"

"It's a serape," Hutch explained informatively. "Real style. Laura would approve."

Starsky's puzzled regard returned to the mirror. "She wouldn't want you to pick anything ordinary," Hutch went on. "Not the pink though -- but keep 'em coming, babe."

He substituted pale wool, subtly striped in muted browns and russet, draping the heavy folds artistically. "There! -- willya look at that!"

Starsky looked. "I'm not sure it's me," he demurred.

"Trust me." Hutch spoke earnestly. "It's classy. Branch out a little. An' I could always help break it in for you...."

The sales staff had now joined the act, clearly approving, admiring, hovering expectantly. For the second time in two days, Starsky found himself the cynosure of an attentive audience. He began to be convinced. Hutch saw the hesitation and homed in on it.

"So give the man the piece of paper, Starsk," he prompted. He twitched the gift voucher from Starsky's hand, passed it to the salesman. "Don't bother with packaging," he added. "I'll just carry it for you like this." With the soft, striped folds over his arm, he preceded Starsky to the car and settled himself in the passenger seat.

In silence, Starsky pulled into the traffic stream. In silence, he drove a couple of blocks. "You're gonna grow to love it, Starsk," Hutch ventured. 

Starsky cast a sideways glance at his newest acquisition. A small, self-congratulatory smile showed. "Maybe it is right for my new image," he conceded.

"It's beautiful," Hutch assured him, "Uh -- you know there's this concert tonight? How about I just -- uh -- borrow it...okay?"

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